


Platonic

by WerewolvesAreReal



Series: Platonic [1]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Domestic, Earth, Fluff, M/M, Post-Series Pre-Movie, Romance Without Sex, Sexual Identity Discussions, Starfleet Academy, discussions of pon farr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-04-12 03:56:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19124080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: The Enterprise is preparing for a 2-year refit between missions. Kirk has a proposal.





	1. Chapter 1

One month left.

A strange tension has seeped over the ship in the past few weeks. Spock likes to think it doesn't affect him, but after years in Starfleet he could not remain oblivious to the atmosphere if he tried. Some people are excited, or nervous; wary, or hopeful; eager, or hesitant.

In one month their five-year mission will come to an end. The Enterprise will return to space-dock above Earth, and the crew will disperse. Some of them – engineers, security, weapons technicians – will remain on the Enterprise to oversee its refit. Others will depart for an extended shoreleave, grateful to be home for the first time in years. And some of the crew will simply continue working with new positions – either temporary or long-term.

The Enterprise's refit shall take approximately 1.8 earth years. Spock has already accepted an interim teaching position at Starfleet academy for the duration. But he, too, is uncertain of the future. Spock prefers to think about his future in the long-term, and he cannot help but wonder whether the Enterprise will be confirmed for another five-year mission at the end of the that period. He wonders, also, who will be chosen as her next captain.

And perhaps 5 years in human company has made him easy to read. At the end of shift one day, Captain Kirk looks at him and suggests a game of chess. “So you can relax,” he says, “Before your eyebrows get stuck that way.” And then he laughs, ignoring Spock's protests.

Of course Spock does not need to 'relax,' but he nevertheless appears at the captain's quarters at 2000 hours. On Spock's side of the table he nurses a glass of water; Jim pours himself a large serving of whiskey. It is not a precipitous start to the night.

They do not talk immediately, and instead play a leisurely game of chess, each man silent and lost in his own thoughts. Yet over time Jim shows subtle but unmistakable signs of restlessness – small twitches of his hands, too-frequent glances toward Spock's face. After he makes an uncharacteristically clumsy maneuver with his rook, Spock looks up. “Sir,” he says. “Is there a reason you wanted to speak with me today?”

Jim is not surprised by his perception. The captain only sighs, nudging forward a pawn. After a moment he says, “It doesn't feel like five years have passed.”

It's a non-sequitur. But these days Spock is accustomed to Jim's conversational gambits, just as he has learned to recognize traps and strategy in his convoluted chess-moves.

“To measure time through 'feelings' is illogical. Time has passed; it is not a matter to be debated.”

Jim smiles. But the gesture has a character of sadness, something almost wistful. “Yes,” he says. “But it's strange, isn't it? I've served on a number of ships, but the Enterprise is... something special.” A pause. “Of course, the officers here are certainly part of that.”

Jim raises his glass as though in toast. Belatedly Spock copies the motion. They both drink.

“It is your first captaincy,” Spock points out. “But of course there are rumors - ”

Jim interrupts him with a laugh. “I've never took you for a gossip, Spock,” he says. Spock arches an eyebrow, a little ruffled by the insinuation. Jim's grin widens. “No, no. I'm certainly not due for a promotion; I'm still one of the fleet's youngest captains, you know.”

“There are now five captains younger than you,” Spock offers, counting only those with vessels equivalent to the Enterprise. Jim makes a face.

“Yes, yes, I'm getting old.” He waves a hand. “But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. You know, Spock, I might not be eligible for promotion anytime soon. But _you_ are.”

“I have no desire for promotion,” Spock says immediately. And he means it. He has never much understood the idea of ambition. There are certainly goals Spock would like to accomplish in the sciences – but he does not desire greater roles of leadership, of personal power or influence. Frankly, he will always be more at home among his labs. He does not have the captain's same natural charisma, though Jim might disagree.

Indeed, Jim frowns a little. Humans always find his protests difficult to understand. “It will look bad if you keep turning down promotions, Spock. I know you've had at least a few offers already.”

“I have,” Spock says. “I am not interested in captaining a vessel. I am first and foremost a scientist, Sir. Further leadership duties would only be a distraction.”

Jim smiles a little. “I hope you don't see your First Officer duties as a 'distraction,'” he says. “But I see your point.” Here Jim seems to hesitate, eyes glancing toward the chessboard before snapping back up. Like he's looking for an excuse to change the subject. The captain fiddles with a chess-piece. “Spock. What are your plans? And I'm not talking about your teaching job on Earth. Do you ever think about returning to Vulcan?”

It's an odd line of inquiry. “Eventually, I must,” Spock concedes.

“Because of the _pon farr,”_ says Jim.

Spock flinches. He can't help it, and he feels unduly affronted that Jim should even utter the phrase. Jim presses his lips together. “Sorry,” he says, before Spock can say a word. “I know it's not something you want to talk about. But I think we need to.”

Spock curbs his initial reply. Jim once beamed down to the sands of Vulcan and nearly died at the place of Koon-ut-Kal-if-fee. If there is anyone who deserves to question Spock on the subject, it is this man.

Yet he cannot bring himself to invite inquiry. He waits, instead, for Jim's question.

It takes awhile. Jim pauses to sip his whiskey, grimacing through the taste. He stares into the glass as though it might rise up and answer his questions for him. Then, without looking at Spock, he asks: “On Vulcan, can men bond with other men?”

It is not a question Spock expects.

“Yes,” he says.

Jim takes another drink.

They sit there, waiting. Jim doesn't look him in the eye. But at last he takes a deep breath, as though steeling himself. “Spock,” he says. “How do Vulcans pick their partners?”

He means romantic partners. Life-partners. “Through mental-compatibility.”

Jim nods. The answer doesn't seem to surprise him. “And who are you most compatible with?”

After these many years Spock is an expert at prevarication. But Jim knows him too well; the question is too specific to be dodged with any success. “You, Sir. More than anyone I have ever met.”

Jim nods.

He is not smiling.

Stiffening, Spock straightens in his seat. He feels like he should apologize. He does not.

“You know,” Jim says, still studying his drink like it holds the secrets of the universe, “I keep thinking about the future. The academy, and what come after... but my first concern isn't the ship. I keep thinking about you. And I keeping thinking – I don't want you to leave, Spock. We've only known each other a few years. But I can't imagine working without you by my side.”

“Yes,” says Spock slowly. “My experience is quite the same, Sir.”

Jim nods tightly. Spock's confession only seems to trouble him further. Then he takes a large gulp from the drink – frowning slightly – and finally looks up.

He meets Spock's gaze with the same grim determination he often brings to gunfights on the bridge. “I prefer women,” he says, abrupt. “I'm not attracted to men.”

“I am aware,” says Spock, who has melded with Jim and maintains a constant, painful cognizance of his romantic escapades. “I understand this, Sir.”

“No, you don't." A pause. "I think we should try it.”

“Sir?”

Jim sighs. Like Spock is being unbearably slow. “Dating, Mister Spock,” he explains. “A relationship.”

Spock stares at him, fascinated. Jim meets his gaze with stubbornness.

“That is illogical,” says Spock at last.

“I don't see how. We're good friends. Best friends. I'm not attracted to you – but I don't feel like I could leave you, either.”

“That is not,” Spock says, “The basis for a romantic relationship. As I believe you are aware.”

“I've had worse.” Jim leans forward. It's the same pose he uses while negotiating with hostile alien diplomats. He seems utterly earnest. “Come on, Spock. Sometimes I go out and find people to date armed with nothing more than a bad one-liner. You can't tell me that's a better method. What's wrong with this, with a trial-run?”

“The difference is that we are already intimately acquainted, Sir. Your inclinations will not change if they have yet to do so.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” Jim half-teases.

Spock is not amused. “Captain.”

The smile drops. “Spock. A change of perspective, alright? Let's give it a shot. I mean it. And – you _know_ me. If the answer was, no, I can't do this, I can't imagine being with you – well, I'd say so. It would be better on both of us.” He leans forward, touching the Vulcan's arm. “That's _not_ what I'm saying. Not at all. The thing is... I never thought about it. Not until I realized I kept picturing my future after we left the _Enterprise,_ and you were always there.”

Spock sits in silence, accepting the words like blows. He does not understand; he cannot let himself believe what Jim is suggesting.

He has seen Jim take a dozen lovers, a wife. Always he loves them fiercely and sincerely, and always he leaves them.

“If I've misunderstood,” Jim says. “If this isn't what you want – just tell me, honestly. I'll never say another word. We can pretend this conversation never happened. But I think we need to _try,_ Spock. Or we'll never know.”

Spock stares at Jim for a long moment. Then he says, softly, “You are immeasurably cruel, Sir.”

“I'm selfish,” Jim replies, equally quiet. “Indulge me one more time.”

Spock closes his eyes and exhales slowly.

Then he nods.

* * *

  
San Francisco seems brighter and more lively than it exists in Spock's memories. He first visited the city as a cadet, young and wholly focused on his studies. By Vulcan standards he is still young, but the fresh-faced students that tromp by with rigid salutes could trick someone into thinking otherwise.

Spock has been assigned to teach three classes – an advanced computers course, advanced Vulcan, and an advanced physics course that will focus on temporal mechanics and Spock's own experiences with time travel. The last should prove interesting, though he anticipates a number of heated debates.

Captain Kirk has two classes in tactics and diplomacy, as well as a slew of administrative duties that seem ill-defined. It's very clear that he dislikes this work, because for the first three days of the semester he keeps finding excuses to pop up into Spock's offices or the on-site research lab, before eventually confessing that he hasn't opened his own office, yet.

They have not referenced their conversation on the Enterprise.

It is foolish to be so preoccupied with this fact. Jim is behaving within normal parameters – but then, that is precisely what vexes Spock. Their situation is not 'normal.' 'Normal' implies stasis. A lack of growth. Their relationship has changed, or so Spock thought – yet were he not Vulcan it would be easy to doubt his own recollection of that night.

After the first week of classes both Jim and Spock are invited to attend a formal reception – a 'celebration' for the start of the new term. It is precisely the sort of tedious and unnecessary event that characterizes many human receptions, and precisely the sort of thing that Spock loathes. He meets Jim on the academy-greens in his dress uniform. The captain takes one look at him and grins.

“You don't have to look so sour,” he says, although Spock's expression has not changed at all. The captain reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder. “I promise I'll provide a distraction if Admiral Kohan's daughter tries to flirt with you again.”

“As your last distraction involved falling into a bowl of punch,” Spock says, “I am afraid I must decline.” But Jim only laughs.

The party is, as expected, very dull. They enter, mill around for a few minutes exchanging painful small-talk, and then stop to listen to half a dozen tedious speeches from people who say things like, _“This upcoming year will help unveil a new generation of exploratory minds,”_ and, _“It is our honor to help advance social and scientific thinking with this next cohort of cadets...”_

“I wonder if they use the same speech every year,” Spock murmurs, sincerely curious. Jim raises a hand and coughs to hide his amusement.

But eventually the speeches end.

Spock finds himself soon swept away, and falls into a debate with several physicists about the intersections of time travel and spatial transport. Even though the _Enterprise_ used deliberate time-travel on multiple occasions, the phenomena is still debated in scientific circles. He is forced to bring out a datapadd and display the pertinent formulas several times before his colleagues concede any ground.

Then Spock spots Jim across the room.

The captain is speaking with a young woman, smiling widely as he talks. This, in itself, is nothing unusual. But one of the physicists follows his gaze. Smiles. “Ah,” the man says. “I've heard that Captain Kirk can be a lady-killer.”

“That is a harsh rumor,” says Spock.

“I mean that he's popular,” the man amends. “And it certainly makes more sense than the rumors about you.”

To which Spock prompts, “I do not take your meaning.”

The man clears his throat. “Ah. Nevermind, Commander. Now, then, you were telling us about the _Enterprise's_ encounter with the Tholian Assembly...?”

Across the room, Jim smiles at his partner. Takes her arm and moves to an open section of the floor, where several people dance to the slow hum of background music.

He looks happy.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Are you sure you don't want to stick around for awhile, Bones?” Jim asks. “I've had three different medical cadets ask if you're on campus; one of them is doing their thesis on the xenopolycythemia incident, I think.”

Doctor McCoy scoffs. “They don't need to talk to me,” he says. “And tell that idiot he should pay attention to diseases that _still_ need curing. No, I've finished all my reports, and Starfleet has had enough of my time; I'll be glad to relax a bit on good, firm ground. I'm more worried about leaving you two without supervision.”

“Supervision!” Jim cries. “You say that like we're children.”

“I wouldn't worry half so much about a pair of toddlers,” McCoy says. “They'd never get into the messes you manage to find. I'd ask you to keep an eye on him, Spock, but you're no better.”

Spock arches an eyebrow. “Excitement is inevitable when one pursues true science,” he says. “But perhaps you are more suited to a quiet life, doctor.”

“What the hell does _that -_ “

“I hope you enjoy Georgia,” Jim interjects. He's grinning a bit. “But I expect to see you on the _Enterprise_ when she ships back out, Bones.”

“Ha! You know what – you convince the admiralty to give her back to you, I might just take you up on that.”

McCoy pats Jim on the shoulder and nods to Spock, then walks toward the transporter, heavily lopsided under the weight of his suitcase. The transporter technician seems exasperated with all of them; he demolecularizes the doctor with barely a passing nod.

They exit the transporter station together. Jim tilts his head back, staring up at the darkening sky. He squints. “Do you think we could see the _Enterprise_ from down here?”

“Not without the usage of a telescope,” Spock replies.

Jim points up at the stars. “I think she's right about... there.”

“You are incorrect, Sir. Based on my calculations of the orbit...”

Jim beams at him. Spock trails off.

“You know,” Jim says. “It's a bit early to call it a night. How about we find some dinner?”

A few minutes later finds the two sitting down to eat. Spock prods dubiously at his bluish stir-fry. Tellarites often eat bugs, and though the menu _said_ this food is vegetarian-safe, there are a few suspiciously crunchy flakes that look a little beetle-like.

“I'm a little surprised you've stayed on Earth,” Jim says.

“I do not see why. Teaching at the Academy is a logical choice between assignments.”

“Yes – but you just as easily could have requested a short position near Vulcan.”

“You are well aware, Sir, that I do not often visit Vulcan.”

Jim frowns.

The restaurant they've chosen is fairly quiet. Pushing away his plate – those are _definitely_ beetles – Spock looks outside the nearest window. San Francisco is one of Earth's most popular sites for alien tourists, but everyone that walks by is human, human, human. And Spock, as always, is an outlier.

“I thought you were getting on better with your parents,” Jim says.

“I am.”

“So...?”

“My decision to work away from Vulcan is not reflective of any personal conflict,” Spock says. Jim continues to look skeptical. “And you should remember, Sir, that Earth could be considered equally my home.”

It's a bit of an exaggeration, and Spock expects Jim to push. Surprisingly, though, the man relaxes. Smiles at him.

“Yes, Mister Spock,” he says. “That is true. I'm very glad to hear it.”

* * *

 

Spock teaches Advanced Vulcan at 0700 hours in the morning.

All Starfleet cadets are, of course, expected to rise with reveille at 0600. That should give them ample time to prepare for class, yet inevitably students stagger in with shadows under their eyes, heads bobbing over their books and data-tablets. Some of the students are able to hold conversations in short, stuttering bursts; others only stare blankly, utterly unable to comprehend Vulcan without the use of their translators.

During one class he overhears an engineering student complaining to his friend, “I don't see the point learning about other languages. Especially Vulcan! We're not linguists. The translators can make it understandable, anyway, and I've never met a Vulcan who can't speak Standard.”

“ _You're_ the one who picked this class,” his friend points out.

“Well, Romulan was full!”

“Only because _someone_ slept through Registration!”

They both fall silent as Spock steps in front of their desk.

“Cadet Deferre,” he says. Nervous titters echo through the room, quickly muffled; Spock finds that students in his Vulcan language class tend to restrain themselves in his presence, acutely aware of their own emotions. “Can you tell me how many words exist, in the modern Vulcan language, for the concept of 'hatred'?”

“Erm,” Deferre squirms. “No, Sir.”

At the back of the room another student straightens. Without looking at her Spock prompts, “Cadet Gahaur?”

“One,” she says immediately. “ _Fnu-ven._ But the translation is closer to _hostility,_ or negative intentions, Sir.”

“Yes,” Spock agrees. “Once, the word conveyed a more emotional state; now, it instead speaks more to a person's specific designs. You may find, Mr. Deferre, that knowledge of an alien language is helpful in more circumstances than you would expect.” Certainly Spock's own companions may have avoided some dangerous situations if they understood the words behind the rituals of his homeland. “But also, language can reveal a great deal about cultures and people.”

Deferre seems to regain his confidence. He tilts up his chin. “Commander, that still doesn't negate my argument. I could see the value in learning a language like Klingon or Romulan; translations aside, we need to understand our enemies to predict their movements. But we can already communicate with Vulcans, and you're not that different from humans.”

Spock raises one eyebrow. He meets Deferre's gaze until the man starts to redden. More muffled laughter through the classroom.

“I expect, Mr. Deferre, that you have never actually spent much time with a Vulcan,” he says dryly. Deferre has the grace to look abashed. “But I am not talking about minor differences in tradition, or government; language can also reveal how members of a species _think._ Understanding a culture's basic assumptions and outlooks can be crucial when beginning communication. And even among the Federation, indeed even among different Core-worlds, miscommunication is shockingly frequent.”

“Like how everyone acts like Tellarites argue for no reason,” Ms. Gahaur offers. “But really they have tons of rules and rituals centered on debate.”

“It's too bad we all can't be telepaths,” someone sighs. “I spent 15 months on Tellar and they still confuse me; I don't think it's really possible to really get what someone's thinking, not when you come from completely different cultures.”

For some reason Spock finds himself thinking of Jim.

“Perhaps not,” he says. “But with time, and effort, you may reach a place of mutual understanding nonetheless.”

* * *

 

Jim peers over Spock's arm and considers the report he's holding. “You're suspending one of your students?”

“He insulted a Tellarite diplomat touring the campus.”

“I'd imagine the Tellarites would approve.”

“When Ambassador Braal tried to argue with him, the cadet challenged him to a duel to the death and attacked him with a bread knife.”

“Ah, well.” Jim squints. “I don't suppose it was a cultural misunderstanding?”

“Vigorous debate is a respected piece of Tellarite culture, Admiral. As are, unfortunately, duels to the death. But I do not think we should be inviting students to use violence as their first tool of diplomacy - regardless of the context.”

“At least third or fourth,” Kirk agrees.

Someone down the table coughs.

Spock has, of course, become accustomed to bureaucracy through his years at Starfleet. But here on Earth it seems that there are always meetings, meetings, and more meetings. Worse, these are not like staff-gatherings on the _Enterprise,_ which were small and intimate groupings that dealt with necessary reports. This particular meeting of academy staff is intended to address overarching curriculum issues – and will doubtlessly take several hours, even without the requisite 'reception' afterward where Spock will be forced to endure at least a few minutes of human small-talk.

“So let's discuss the training cruises,” says Commodore Annaig. Starfleet officers are too professional to groan, but a few people sigh or shake their heads.

“We've been over this,” says a lieutenant-commander who teaches navigation. “Third years and above, period. We don't have the resources to let second-years play with starships, and they don't know enough to benefit from the experience anyway.”

“Maybe not _all_ second years,” says Commander Rozen. “But perhaps some of the higher-performing students could join the exercises? It would be a good incentive.”

“Students in some fields of study might be more prepared than others,” answers Commander Maela. “Perhaps someone with more recent experience in starships could give us some input?”

Commander Maela leaves the invitation vague. But she is, clearly, smiling at Kirk while she speaks.

Kirk catches her eye. Returns a soft, easy smile that Spock recognizes. “I'd be most concerned about Engineering,” he says. “Under-prepared students could do a lot of damage there. But if we required instructor approval first, and maybe a specialized test - “

“I quite agree,” says the Commander immediately.

“Gods,” someone says, “Don't we give them _enough_ tests...?”

This starts a new round of arguments, but eventually everyone agrees to allow 50 2nd-year students – of varying disciplines – to attend the select number of training cruises. Kirk seems to approve – and no wonder. He was once the type of student who would have made that cut, and benefited.

The meeting drifts into a boring debate about the anthropology department. Jim, though, doesn't seem bored. Spock sees him watching Commander Maela, who keeps glancing at him when they should be listening to the speaker. She is young, and very pretty, by human standards. Spock is not sure why he notices this.

Spock elects to ignore the two and concentrates on the meeting. He has little to contribute, though, even as an hour and a half pass in meandering conversation. Everyone seems relieved when the meeting ends; fortunately the departments are only required to come together like this twice a semester.

Afterward everyone streams out into an adjacent room, where they'll be expected to 'unwind.' Spock has grown accustomed to many alien oddities during his years in Starfleet, but he will never understand the Terran habit of enforcing recreational time among workers – especially since no one ever seems to enjoy these activities.

Unfortunately it would be rude to leave immediately. But as he follows the other officers, he pauses by the doorway and glances back. Jim has remained by the table, where he stands close to Commander Maela. She laughs at something he says; Jim smiles, leaning in closer.

Spock turns around. Perhaps he will leave early, after all.

It is not as though he has any reason to stay.

* * *

 

“Spock! Spock, wait up, will you?”

Surprised, Spock stops walking. Overhead a green street-lamp – filled with bioluminescent algae from Vurrill Prime – casts a soft halo of light around his spot. Still, the night has grown dark. The meeting lasted longer than expected.

Spock turns. Jim is running at a half-jog, and pants a little when he finally comes to a halt. “Have you been neglecting the gym, Captain?”

Still gasping for breath, Jim shoots him a sour face. “I didn't expect I'd need to chase you down,” he grumbles. “I know you don't like socializing, Spock, but you practically ran as soon as the meeting was done.”

“An exaggeration.”

Jim shoots him a suspicious look. In the recent year or two he's started to grow skeptical when Spock uses words like 'understatement' or 'exaggeration' or 'slightly.' Evidently he does not trust Spock's perception of scale.

Pre-empting further accusations, Spock adds, “Did you need something, Sir?”

“You can call me Jim, you know; it's not like we're on the ship,” Jim says. “It's nothing important. I just thought we might grab dinner.”

This seems like an odd reason for the captain to run across the campus grounds – however much he evidently needs the exercise. It's also a little surprising. “I presumed you wished to speak more with Commander Maela.”

Jim straightens. Squints. “Hmm,” he says.

That's ominous.

“Sir?”

“You remember our conversation?” Jim says, apropos of nothing.

“We have many conversations.”

“Don't sass me. I told you, didn't I, that I can't imagine working without you? That no one else – no woman – would compare?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And you believe me?”

“I have no reason to doubt you,” Spock replies. This does not seem to satisfy Jim. “However, I do not see how that matter is relevant to this discussion.”

Jim makes another skeptical sound. Then, suddenly, he smiles.

“As long as we're clear, Mr. Spock,” he says. And then he leans forward, grasps Spock by the elbow, and brushes a kiss against his cheek.

Spock blinks.

“...Sir, are you drunk?” he wonders.

Jim throws back his head and laughs. “Not tonight,” he says. He starts walking away, and throws one last admonishment over his shoulder. “Make sure to clear your weekend, Spock! We have plans.”

“Yes, Sir,” says Spock automatically. He watches as Jim vanishes into the night - and then, lacking anything better to do, walks to his apartment for contemplation.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“You remember Peter, don't you?”

Spock sighs and pushes away his microscope. The small lab is empty except for them; Kirk hefts himself onto a table and sits on it, legs swinging.

“I have known 17 Peter's during the course of our acquaintance,” Spock says. “You will need to be more specific.”

“Peter,” Kirk repeats. “My nephew.”

Spock raises an eyebrow.

Spock has met Peter Kirk on only two occasions – first during the regrettable Deneva incident, and then again at the funeral for George Kirk, where he accompanied Jim planet-side.

Kirk sees his recognition. “He has that scholarship on Andor – but he's back in Iowa for a few weeks, dealing with some local paperwork. I might go visit him.”

Spock nods, and waits. He can tell Kirk wants to say more.

The Admiral watches while he puts away the lab equipment. “Do you ever miss Vulcan?” he asks.

“No,” says Spock immediately.

This seems to genuinely surprise Jim. Spock is not sure why. “Really? Never? Not even in winter, with a foot of snow on the ground?”

Spock doesn't need to be reminded about the unpleasant seasons of Earth. “As I have served the past 19 years on various starships, I cannot accurately answer that question. However, while the temperatures on Vulcan may be preferable to those on Earth, I believe that 'missing' something implies a certain level of emotional attachment - “

“That you don't feel, of course,” Jim finishes. “But not even when you first came to Earth?”

Unwillingly Spock thinks about his years as a cadet. Everything on Earth seemed designed to aggravate him – the loud, mind-blind populace, the cold rains, the scent of charred meat when he walked down the street.

And now -

“Vulcan has not been my home in many years,” he says honestly.

Jim nods slowly. He starts tapping Spock's unused microscope. Spock watches the movement warily, though he knows the captain is not so clumsy as to damage his equipment. “I've almost forgotten what Earth was like,” says Jim, wistfully. “It's easy to romanticize places in your head. Sometimes I want to drop everything, go back to Iowa, maybe spend some time on the farm. But I think I would go crazy if I was there. I haven't been to Iowa in years. I think the truth of it would disappoint me.”

“Sometimes,” Spock says, “it is better to want something than to have it.”

Jim glances at him sharply. “Only if we're deluding ourselves, and seeking the wrong thing,” he says. “And sometimes we _can_ have the things we want.” Jim hops off the table. “Come on; you did clear your weekend, didn't you? There's something I wanted you to see.”

* * *

 

Evergreen park was erected two years after the end of World War III. During this conflict San Francisco, as one of North America's more populated cities, found itself targeted during the “Sino-Western Troubles” when eugenically augmented leaders pitted fragments of China and the USA against one another.

Now, nearly two centuries later, the effects of that war are still visible. The city has been repaired, and ruined buildings have long-since been bulldozed and overgrown with grass – or, as the case might be, replaced with sleek new labs for Starfleet Academy. The Academy itself was built on the ashes of a ruined street, a symbolic gesture that Spock finds somewhat morbid. But among all this growth, there are still buildings that stand half-toppled and empty. Funds are always needed elsewhere, and as more and more time passed these ruined memories became less significant.

To most people, anyway.

“They've just finished clearing this lot,” Jim says, gesturing broadly. They're standing in an empty field of dirt. Mounds and pitholes litter the area, some clumps towering several stories high. Beyond them a group of humans assemble into a line before an industrial hovercraft – the kind used to transport huge amounts of materials. “This is going to be a park. But they need help with the plants.”

“'They,' Sir?” Spock asks as they join the line.

Jim waves a hand, implying that the exact identity of the responsible individuals couldn't be less important. “It's a good cause,” he says instead.

“I do not see why the city has not invested funds into the park's maintenance.”

“There are higher priorities, I guess,” Jim says. “Don't you have volunteer work on Vulcan?”

“Yes,” Spock says. “But we have local councils to identify issues of importance, and registries for people willing to expend extra time...”

“Of course you do,” Jim says. They step forward and accept a pair of shovels; a woman gestures them to the hovercraft, where people are lugging away seed-packets and saplings.

There are a number of children among the volunteers, and several of them stare at Spock as they pass. Spock doesn't mind – curiosity is a logical trait to encourage – but he sees one mother tug her son's ear and hiss a reprimand.

“I think there's something good about working with the Earth,” Jim muses as they pick an area to plant. “It helps you appreciate the world, and your part in it.”

Spock quirks an eyebrow. “More of your sentimentality, Captain?”

“I'm a sentimental person,” Jim says without shame.

They keep digging for a few more minutes in silence. Spock thinks that the soil looks very poor in this area, though some of it is tinged an odd blue that makes him itch to pull out a tricorder. But that's not his concern.

At one point he looks up and sees Jim leaning against the haft of his shovel, the blade digging into the ground. At some point he's discarded his shirt, and his chest gleams with sweat. Poised against the blue sunlit sky and the bare earth beneath, he looks disconcertingly prosaic. Like a painting of someone from old-earth, timeless and eternal. The sun highlights a flash of silver in his hair – a jarring reminder of Jim's increasing age, the frailty of human life.

For some reason Spock finds himself speaking.

“On Vulcan,” he says, and Jim turns, “There is a place in Shikahr dessert where nothing will grow. There is no water, and the ground is full of rocks and toxins. But it's a favored place for lematya to raise their young – it is a safe place.”

Jim doesn't ask why he raised the image. Only hefts the shovel and wedges it again against the ground. He looks thoughtful. “I'll always be a bit of a farm-boy, Spock; it's hard to value land that can't grow anything.”

“And yet you spend your days on a steel ship,” Spock says. “But I do not think anyone could devalue the work we do, Jim.”

Jim tosses aside a shovelful of dirt. Turns to him. “Why, Spock,” he says, and appears genuinely pleased. “Be careful; I think you _are_ getting sentimental on me.”

Spock does not protest. They continue working. By the time they stow away the equipment and bid farewell to the other volunteers the bare field is filled with young shoots and saplings.

It's not beautiful, not yet. But it's a start.

 


	4. Chapter 4

On Tuesday, at the end of the first term, Spock receives a request to visit the Vulcan Embassy.

He does not reply immediately. He contemplates the possible motivations for this request as his class discusses Pre-Surakian modes of address and asks questions about the final exam. At the end of the hour the cadets leave in fits and starts, and Spock lingers in the classroom to answer a few questions.

As the last students slip away, Jim sidles through the door and catches his eyes.

“I was afraid I'd missed you again, Spock.”

“Again, Sir?”

“You're very popular with the cadets.”

Spock checks that he has all of his materials as Jim meanders to the desk. “I am not 'popular,'” he says absently. “However, my students are generally quite inquisitive.”

“Oh, I bet they are,” says Jim. He sounds amused, and reaches out.

Spock stills as Jim lays a hand against his hip. It is an intimate gesture; Jim keeps speaking without seeming to find anything unusual in this situation.

“Do you have some free time today?” he asks.

“No,” Spock says. Jim looks disappointed, so he clarifies, “I have a prior engagement at the Vulcan embassy.”

“Oh. Your father?”

“No.”

“Your mother?”

“No. I am uncertain why they have requested me.”

“Something interesting, no doubt. You'll have to tell me later. I suppose I probably ought to find my office, then.”

Spock pauses. Narrows his eyes. “Captain, I trust that you _have_ been using your assigned office?”

“I still hold office hours,” Jim protests. “Just... somewhere else.” He must read something judgmental in Spock's silence. “The cadets can find me fine, Spock – it's the _admiralty_ I want to avoid.”

“Yes,” says Spock. “I can see how a decorated officer would, naturally, want to avoid the superiors responsible for overlooking his duties. It is really quite rude of the admiralty to expect your presence.”

“You might want to tone down that sarcasm with the Vulcans,” Jim says. “Although, for the record, I quite agree. Admiral Nnela wants me to consult with a committee about colonial tax evasion. Tax evasion! Can you imagine?”

* * *

 

Many planetary embassies are located near Starfleet Academy, but the Vulcan embassy – which was created _before_ the Academy – is located across the city. Someone, in a misguided attempt at diplomacy, settled the embassy right against the ocean shores. While the location is flattering, Spock also finds the sight of the endless waters a bit unsettling. Not that he's ever heard any Vulcan protest.

The embassy is much more lax with its security than non-Vulcans might expect. Spock is identified by name at the entrance, then allowed to enter without any further questioning. In deference to the local culture the doors _do_ have locks, but Vulcans are a peaceful people, and he spots no cameras.

An aide escorts him to one of several offices. The dignitary who greets him there is vaguely familiar; an associate of Sarek's, although Spock has never met him.

“Commander Spock,” says the diplomat, raising his hand in the ta'al. “Live long, and prosper. Please, sit.”

Spock returns the greeting and obeys. The nameplate on the man's desk declares him Senior Ambassador Samik. He must be recently promoted; Spock usually maintains a peripheral awareness of his father's colleagues, even if the two rarely speak.

“I have requested your presence to offer you a job,” says Samik without preamble. “Or, rather, two jobs.”

Spock raises an eyebrow.

“The Vulcan Science Academy has asked us to pass along their own request.” Samik hands over a small stack of old-fashioned paper; evidently the ambassador has been infected by the Earth belief that important matters should be conducted through physical texts. “They have offered a position teaching advanced physics, and hope you will work with their researchers on matters of time-travel and quantum displacement.”

Spock says nothing. They both know, of course, that he is eminently qualified in both respects.

“This office,” Samik continues, “offers you the position of Junior Ambassador to Camor V. I understand that you are already acquainted with their Council?”

“I am,” Spock acknowledges. He was received there quite kindly two years into the _Enterprise's_ mission.

“Then you have no reasons to refuse,” says Samik simply. “Do you have questions about your proposed duties?”

They discuss details for half an hour. At last Spock acknowledges that he needs no more answers. He stands. Samik does, as well, and lifts one hand in the ta'al. Perhaps trying to match the earth habit of 'small-talk' – or perhaps under the mistaken impression that his words will be relevant – he adds, “I am sure that it will be favorable to find yourself in more logical company.”

And Spock, about to exit, pauses by the door. “Clarify,” he responds.

“You have served with humans for man years,” Samik says. “Doubtlessly it has been an educational experience. Yet surely it would be beneficial to work more closely with your own kind.”

It is strange, Spock thinks, that so many Vulcan were once so glad to consider him _other,_ and now want to accept him because he has gained a reputation for success. Perhaps this is an unfair thought – Samik has never offended him, never judged him for his heritage – but he cannot dismiss it. “Logic is the beginning of wisdom – not the end.” Spock tilts his head. “And if I were content to follow logic, and only logic, I would become a disciple of Gol.”

Samik says nothing for a moment, perhaps taken aback by this response; his expression does not change. “Perhaps you should consider Gol,” he says at last. “You could learn much there.”

It is, perhaps, an insult – an insinuation that Spock's logic is deficient. But it is deftly done. “You might consider the same,” says Spock. And he leaves.

He does not return immediately to the academy. The day is fairly warm for early-December, if still chill by Vulcan standards, so he takes a meandering path and lets himself contemplate the two offers presented to him.

Either option, of course, has certain interests. A position with the VSA would allot him more time for personal research. An ambassadorial post would offer connections and advantages throughout the Federation, and offer considerable potential for further career opportunities.

But if Spock wanted a purely academic posting, tethered to a single world, he would never have joined Starfleet at all. If he were interested in power and command, he would be a captain by now – there have been offers.

So he's unsure why the opportunities trouble him – and why he didn't refuse immediately. Almost an hour after he left the embassy Spock finds himself standing in front of Jim's apartment. On a whim, he buzzes at the entrance.

Jim is surprised, but lets him in easily. The apartment is dark and a little empty – though filled with paperback books, the lighting is poor. McCoy would probably complain about the damage to Jim's eyes. A chess set sits on one of the tables, gathering dust. They haven't met here in awhile, which strikes Spock suddenly as strange.

He's not sure why. By any standards, they are unusually close for a captain and his no-longer first officer.

“I thought you were busy tonight,” says Jim, preoccupying himself with making tea at the stove as though he doesn't have a perfectly good replicator. “I hope the embassy didn't have bad news for you?”

“They offered me a job,” says Spock. He lingers by the side of the half-kitchen, reluctantly curious to see how Jim will take the news.

He stiffens slightly, but refrains from commenting until he's poured two cups of tea for them. Spock accepts his own with a dubious glance. The smell is earthy and vaguely sweet. He hopes Jim hasn't been experimenting again; a few weeks ago he offered Spock a Caiitian blend, figuring Vulcan tastes might run similar, and the result necessitated that Spock use every ounce of control to refrain from being physically ill. “Are you interested?” asks Jim, like the answer wouldn't matter to him at all.

Spock sips the tea, winces, and politely sets it on the counter. “They both present excellent opportunities.”

“Both?” Jim asks sharply.

“There was also an offer from the Vulcan Science Academy.”

“You must be honored, of course.”

Jim says it the same way one might say, 'The ship is down to five-percent power,' or, 'We only have an hour's supply of oxygen.'

“Of course,” Spock echoes.

He turns to find a seat. Jim grabs his elbow. “Don't play games,” he says flatly. “Spock, listen. If you want to accept, I understand. But don't leave me wondering -”

“Jim,” Spock interrupts. “I have already decided to refuse the offers.”

Jim pauses. “Oh,” he says. “You might have led with that, you know.”

He doesn't release Spock's wrist. After a moment Jim shifts on his feet. “Spock, of course I don't to do anything to injure your career.” After his emotional reaction the words could seem ingenuous, but Jim looks sincere. “So if you want to pursue something else – a promotion - “

“I prefer to stay with the Enterprise,” says Spock. “And with you.”

This statement is a simple fact; he has no ulterior motives. So Spock is a little surprised when Jim leans forward and kisses him.

Spock has watched Jim charm various women over the years. When he kisses them, he uses his whole body – arms wrapped around their shoulders, pressing the two together like they can't get close enough. Another facet of the captain's tactile nature.

Here, by comparison, Jim is almost hesitant. He is also unbearably gentle, as though he wants to give Spock the option to step back. One hand slowly shifts up to wrap around his arm, very loosely; the other pulls his neck in closer.

The way humans kiss – mouths pressed together, eyes closed – looks uncomfortable and unhygienic from an outside perspective. But it feels much nicer in reality. Soft, and oddly warm. Or maybe that's just the captain's higher body-heat pressing against him, his unshielded thoughts humming under Spock's skin wherever they touch.

It's confusing. Jim enjoys this – Spock can _feel_ the fond affection flowing from his mind – but that doesn't make much sense. There is no sexual feeling in the embrace – Spock can perceive that, too.

Jim pulls his head away, but they remain wrapped together. “I do not understand you,” Spock confesses. It's hard to articulate himself with Jim standing so close, but he needs clarity.

Jim brushes a hand against his neck. This does not make it easier to concentrate. “Do you remember that conversation we had?” he asks suddenly. “A few weeks after the Babel conference. I asked you about something one of the delegates said.”

It takes a moment, under the circumstances, for Spock to summon the memory. “One of my father's assistants commented on our bond,” he recalls.

“You called us 't'hy'la',” Jim says. “I've looked it up. It means friend, brother, lover... but when I asked, you told me that it meant you'd be whatever I needed. Whatever was required of you.”

Spock remembers, of course. But he's not sure what Jim is trying to say. “You _are_ my t'hy'la,” he says.

Jim kisses him again.

Spock is still confused, but he must be doing something right, then.

“You're coming back to the Enterprise, aren't you?” Jim asks.

This question is much easier to answer.

“I will remain as long as you will have me,” Spock replies.

 


	5. Chapter 5

“This place is hotter than a Vulcan in heat,” Doctor McCoy declares, thrusting a bag into Spock's hand. Spock raises his eyebrow, but the doctor ignores him and hefts another suitcase. “Where to?”

The doctor looks tanned and well-rested after his year in Georgia. He also seems to be in a cheerful mood, which probably means he's going to be particularly aggravating.

Jim beams and claps his friend on the shoulder. “I've set up a spare room,” he says. “Scotty tells me we should be able to settle in on the _Enterprise_ by Saturday. And departure is next Wednesday.”

They all know this, of course – however much Spock likes to doubt McCoy's sense of procedure, the doctor would not be oblivious to their deadlines. But the man only nods. “Right. And then it's _another_ five years in the back-end of space – remind me why I'm doing this?”

“For the adventure, Bones. New species, new scientific discoveries - “

“New diseases, new ways to die, lots of replicated food and no alcohol. What a waste.”

The doctor continues to complain as they travel to Jim's apartment. Most of the captain's belongings have already been boxed away, but their chess-set still remains on the table, and Spock's lyre sits next to it. McCoy arches a brow at the arrangement but doesn't comment, and leaves them to put away his things.

“I'm sure you two will have a lot to talk about after a year apart,” says Jim cheerfully, laying a hand around his shoulder. “But try not to terrify the new officers when we're back on the _Enterprise,_ alright?”

“You may find it more useful to warn Doctor McCoy,” says Spock dryly.

McCoy returns and gives them an odd look. Jim steps away. “Come on, Bones,” he says. “If you're so worried about replicator-fare, we should celebrate our last days on Earth with a good meal.”

They pick a dining establishment in-line with McCoy's tastes, which means that it smells foully of cooked meat and liquor. Spock will never understand the human proclivity for self-poisoning.

McCoy satisfies himself attacking an enormous steak while castigating Jim over his own choice of dinner. They've exchanged correspondences over the past year and a half, of course, but the doctor nonetheless sees fit to grill them for details of their work at the academy. He chides them for 'slacking off in the gym' in-between pointed suggestions for Spock to eat more.

In short, the doctor remains as erratic and illogical as ever.

He also grumbles whenever the _Enterprise_ is mentioned. “Can't believe I've signed up for another five-years in that old tin can,” McCoy says. “Five years! I'm not sure how we survived the first trip, honestly.”

“Oh, stop,” Jim says. “You can't gripe this time; you know exactly what you've signed up for.”

“Which only means I've developed a case of space-madness.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “No such illness exists.” He turns to Jim. “Are you certain that we would not be better served by another CMO, Sir? This one seems rather superstitious.”

McCoy waves his fork threateningly. “He does, doesn't he?” asks Jim. “Well, I'll suppose we'll have to make due. Better keep an eye on him, Spock.”

“Always, Sir.”

McCoy grumbles under his breath. “Don't know why I bother,” he says. “If the whole 'fleet disappeared tomorrow, you two would still find some way to get yourselves shot at and flung through time and space within the month. Hell, it's hard to imagine that you've been bound Earth-side for more than a few days. I'd have thought you'd both gone stir-crazy by now.”

“Well, I had Spock with me,” says Jim. Like that's all the answer he needs.

McCoy gives them another long look, then changes the subject and starts telling them about his research-project down in Atlanta.

* * *

Spock occupies the next several days overlooking travel-arrangements for new crewmen, communicating with Mr. Scott, and pushing through requisitions. His lists have been prepared well in advance of the _Enterprise's_ launch-date, but Earth bureaucracy can be amazingly inefficient.

On the Friday before the launch he finds himself accompanying McCoy to Starfleet Medical headquarters. While medical is often treated as a distinct department, it is, technically, under Spock's purview as Science Officer.

And one of the proposed nurses for the upcoming mission is... somewhat unprecedented.

“I mean,” McCoy says, “If he wanted to be a _researcher,_ that would be one thing. He sure as hell brings a unique perspective. But a nurse – how does that even work?”

“I cannot imagine Ensign Krekkek would have entered the medical track – much less graduated – if he were incapable of wielding a hypospray,” Spock points out. “He comes highly-recommended.”

“He _doesn't have hands,_ Spock,” McCoy says.

“As you keep saying, Doctor.”

They arrive at the observation room of the training-hospital and are admitted without issue. Two cadets are already inside the room – they blanch and jump to nervous attention as soon as they spot Spock and McCoy. McCoy ignores them to walk over to the window, so Spock tells the cadets to stand at ease.

Below, assisting a gray-haired doctor at the operating table, a large and vaguely-familiar lifeform wobbles around. Curled between several prehensile pili - previously hidden beneath his massive bulk – the horta cadet holds up a full hypospray to the surgeon, who accepts it without batting an eyelash.

“Huh,” says McCoy, staring. “Hey, do you figure that corrosive acid they secrete could act as a cauterizing agent?”

The cadets shoot them alarmed looks. “A fascinating possibility,” Spock says. “Though hopefully never necessary. Interesting how he uses the scalpel. He _is_ more flexible than I expect, though Sickbay will have less space for maneuvering.”

“Might be useful on away-teams,” McCoy speculates, interest evidently starting to outweigh skepticism. “In fact I can't believe security didn't try to poach him. Can you imagine some Klingons trying to spot him on a rocky planet?”

They debate the merits of a horta physician as the uneasy cadets find excuses to slip away. McCoy is still skeptical, but finally agrees to offer the cadet a position for what he calls a 'trial-run'. Spock has no doubt that Ensign Krekkek will soon be a regular part of the Enterprise – McCoy is lying to himself if he wants to pretend he isn't curious about the unusual nurse.

They wait for the operating-room to clear away before they leave; it may alarm the ensign to realize he was being observed. McCoy asks Spock if he has any plans for the night.

“I am attending a play with Captain Kirk,” says Spock. “ _Lysistrata_. He insists it is necessary viewing.”

McCoy squints at Spock. Perhaps it is just that they have been apart so long, but it seems to Spock that McCoy is giving him a lot of those odd, inscrutable looks. “Ain't you two sick of each other yet?” he asks slowly. “Five years on that ship, and then you get to Earth and you're still thick as thieves.”

“I do not see what you expect. Unless you refer to the disproven idea that 'familiarity breeds contempt' – a very human supposition.”

“You're both weird as hell,” says McCoy, which does not seem like a proper response. “But whatever makes you happy.”

McCoy glances again at Spock as they exit the building, as though waiting for him to say that he is never 'happy.' Spock does not bother responding; McCoy huffs, lips twitching.

The Academy grounds are quiet and cool as night falls around them. “I'm going to head up to the _Enterprise_ early,” McCoy declares when they reach the apartment.

Spock tilts his head. “You are aware, doctor, that the rooms may not be prepared yet?”

McCoy waves. “Just bells and whistles left over. And I'm getting the feeling you and Jim might appreciate some time alone before we're all swamped with the shakedown.”

Here McCoy gives him a pointed, almost accusing look, pausing again as though he expects some response. He is clearly implying _something,_ but the meaning eludes Spock. The silence stretches – becomes awkward.

Apparently he needs to say something, though. “And you are certain of your arrangements for the night?”

“I'm a big boy, Spock, you don't have to set me a curfew.” McCoy seems exasperated with him. He turns toward his room, muttering, “Besides, I think I'm the third-wheel here anyway. Maybe _I_ should be setting a curfew.”

Spock elects to ignore this. “Then I will inform the captain of your choice. Goodnight, Doctor,” he offers instead. McCoy waves vaguely, gathers his bag, and in short order leaves Spock alone.

* * *

 

The Orpheum Theatre's performance of _Lysistrata_ occurs late at night. The theatre is well-maintained, and Spock is far from the only non-human in attendance; he can see a few Andorians, Caitians, and even several members of a short orange-skinned species he cannot identify. Admiring a planet's most famous works of art can be a useful way to understand the culture.

Still, Spock enters with some skepticism; he finds that human art becomes more inexplicable with age. His understanding of modern humans has been hard-won, but divining the social undercurrents of plays from the 19th or 20th century can be more challenging. He considers himself fairly well-educated regarding Ancient Greece, but it would not be surprising if the play is a little confusing.

 _Lysistrata_ proves to be a comedy, which immediately indicates that Spock is in for a difficult evening. The plot of the performance – as is often true of human art – revolves around sex. The titular character persuades a number of women to withhold sex from their partners, using it as a bargaining tool to attempt to end the Peloponnesian war by blackmailing their husbands into peace.

The entire premise is absurd, and Spock is fascinated. The play was written in an era where misogyny was rampant, and while the play clearly depicts men as senseless, lustful creatures, the women are not characterized in a better light. Their women's desires to end the war is never clearly shown as a moral good, he notes.

It is certainly an interesting piece of human art, and all the more relevant because it has remained popular into the present age. When they exit the theatre Kirk asks Spock what he thinks.

“The entire performance was completely illogical,” Spock says. “ - I would be interested in viewing other interpretations of the work.”

Kirk laughs, and promises to keep an eye out for any other venues performing the classic.

They step outside into a light drizzle of rain. Spock asks for the captain's opinion of the play.

“Oh – you know, I've always preferred tragedies over comedies? And here... I know you're not supposed to take _Lysistrata_ seriously, but it's hard to always see the humor. It's insulting, isn't it? To think that people view a loss of sex as something worse than war, and murder.”

“It is hardly unheard-of for human warfare to be motivated by forbidden sexual encounters.”

“True,” Kirk concedes. “But it's also not 'unknown for people to betray their friends, or murder in cold blood. That doesn't mean I like to think that the majority of humanity would be capable of those things. To act like sex is the end-all, be-all of life – something we'll be motivated to conserve, even over compassion and basic human decency – it's insulting.”

“It is, I think, a culturally accepted view. And representative of a preoccupation with sex that is quite normal in many human societies.”

“Well,” says Jim. “Good thing neither of us like 'normal'.”

This sudden swerve into the personal surprises Spock to silence. He puzzles over Jim's meaning as they return to the apartment.

Jim immediately vanishes to dispose of his wet coat. Spock, making an assumption, sets up the chessboard. Jim smiles when he returns. “Ah,” he says. “I _haven't_ managed to scare you away, then?”

Spock raises an eyebrow. He tries to parse the words.

It is clear that Jim has been referencing their arrangement in a round-about way all evening; the play is clearly a hint of some sort. But he is not sure why Jim thinks he would be _scared,_ unless he is referring to the human aversion to social embarrassment. That he hasn't 'managed' to 'scare' Spock might imply that he is _trying_ to dissuade Spock from their relationship, in which case...

Jim shakes his head and rises, moving to put away the chess set. “I can see your mind going a mile a minute,” he complains.

“I do not understand that expression,” Spock admits.

“You're overthinking things,” Jim clarifies. He leans against the table. Rubs his jaw. “I don't know how to say this... you were right, Spock. I'm not attracted to men.”

The confirmation is not surprising. It hurts anyway. “I am aware.”

“But you don't understand,” Jim insists. He steps closer. “I'm not attracted to men, but that doesn't matter.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “Sir - “

“It doesn't,” Jim repeats. “I hope you'll forgive my... rampant emotionalism, Spock. But I have to say this, at least once. I love you. I do. And we can make this work.”

“Sir,” Spock says, more firmly. But this isn't a 'Sir' conversation. “Jim. Such a basis for a relationship cannot be sustainable.”

“This isn't a new thing, Spock,” says Jim. “We decided to give this a shot almost a year ago. Well – I'm glad we did. It might not be the usual thing. But it works for us.”

“And what will that mean in four years?” Spock asks – a tactless reference to his own pon farr. The captain is only attracted to women; Spock cannot claim the same. Yet the absurdity of Jim's insistence – the beautiful, tempting absurdity – crumbles all his restraint. “You will not be satisfied with such a relationship.”

“We'll make it work,” says Jim, with all the stubbornness he brings to the negotiating table. “You know we will.”

With a tender hand Jim reaches up, to cradle his cheek – or try to. Spock grabs his hand holds it apart from himself.

So Jim leans down and kisses him.

Spock tolerates the gesture for a moment, then leans away. Obligingly Jim moves back, but still stands too close. “You do not desire this,” Spock says. “You do not desire _that.”_

“It's not sexual, Spock.”

“Then I cannot understand what you want.”

“I want _this_ ,” Jim says, and pulls their clasped hands to his chest. “This feeling. Right here. Isn't that enough?”

It's a desperate, emotional plea utterly lacking in reason. Spock considers it anyway. He thinks of the offer from the Vulcan Embassy, still valid. He thinks of Gol, and the harsh sands of Vulcan – a homeworld he has barely seen for decades. Perhaps that would be the right path to take. He could strip these illogical emotions from himself, one by one, to save them both.

But Jim waits for his response, their hands still entwined. “You are very cruel,” Spock says at last, mirroring another conversation in this same room, nearly a year before.

“I know,” Jim concedes. “And if you really don't want this, Spock, I'll stop pressing. But only if you can honestly tell me you'll be happier without it. I like – I like having you to myself. Don't you?”

Spock would never admit to happiness – as his captain well knows.

But Jim has given him a great deal, and risked more. So perhaps he can try to return that favor.

For the first time Spock is the one to reach out. Jim's eyes widen as Spock raises two fingers. Jim returns the Vulcan gesture, pressing their hands together.

Spock cannot return Jim's declarations of emotion. He grasps for the words; Jim waits, with unending patience.

“You are my t'hy'la,” Spock says at last. He remembers their conversation in a dusty apartment – was it months ago? Surely Jim has forgotten by now.

But the captain smiles. And Spock thinks – hopes – _knows,_ that this thing between them will be worth it.

 


	6. Chapter 6

> “ _...he must grasp that the beauties of the body are as nothing to the beauties of the soul, so that wherever he meets with spiritual loveliness, even in the husk of an unlovely body, he will find it beautiful enough to fall in love with and to cherish--and beautiful enough to quicken in his heart a longing for such discourse as tends toward the building of a noble nature. And from this he will be led to contemplate the beauty of laws and institutions. And when he discovers how nearly every kind of beauty is akin to every other he will conclude that the beauty of the body is not, after all, of so great moment..._
> 
>  
> 
> “ _...And if, my dear Socrates,_ Diotima went on, _man's life is ever worth the living, it is when he has attained this vision of the very soul of beauty. And once you have seen it, you will never be seduced again by the charm of gold, of dress, of comely boys, or lads just ripening to manhood; you will care nothing for the beauties that used to take your breath away and kindle such a longing in you, and many others like you, Socrates, to be always at the side of the beloved and feasting your eyes upon him, so that you would be content, if it were possible, to deny yourself the grosser necessities of meat and drink, so long as you were with him.”_
> 
> \- Plato's  _Symposium_
> 
>  

* * *

 

On the day of departure the _Enterprise_ crew comes aboard in pre-arranged shifts. Kirk and Spock are among the first arrivals, so they help oversee some last-minute adjustments. Scotty greets them in the transporter room and immediately drags Spock away to check some of the computer's new programs.

Down in Engineering Spock meets a few new recruits – young Ensigns and crewmen fresh from their Academy training, who salute Spock stiffly even though Kirk has discarded most trappings of military formality. As Spock assesses the hard drive changes implemented by the San Francisco programmers he hears a few excited crewmen whispering from another section of the room.

“I heard he came up with the equations of the cold-engine restart.”

“I heard he figured out how to time-travel in the middle of an emergency – just on-the-spot, can you imagine?”

“I thought some sort of alien machine made that happen?”

“No, I guess they've time travelled a few times.”

 _“What?_ No way, that's not something that just _happens..._ ”

At first Spock assumes that the crewmen are trying to be discreet, thinking perhaps his Vulcan-hearing allows him to be privy to their conversation. Then Scotty saunters up and winks at him. “You've become very popular with the younger officers, Mr. Spock,” he says cheerfully. “You'll have to join me and the captain for drinks sometime, tell me what messes you lot have been making Earthside.”

“I do not understand why you presume we have caused some sort of problem,” Spock protests, justifiably; his last year on Earth has been unusually peaceful.

But Scotty laughs like he's told a joke and slaps Spock on the shoulder. One of the Ensigns in the corner squeaks. “I'm sure you don't, Mr. Spock.”

They discuss the changes to the _Enterprise_ for three hours before separating. Doubtless Scotty will be making endless adjustments to the systems for the next month or so; the Chief Engineer has always been fond of making unique alterations, and he often says that the technical specifications chosen by Starfleet's on-planet mechanics are not truly applicable for day-to-day space life.

Or, Spock reflects, day-to-day life on the _Enterprise._ Their particular ship tends to find an unrealistic number of unusual situations.

The ship is almost full when Spock emerges from Engineering. Familiar faces cluster around the halls as new officers familiarize themselves with the ship and veterans greet old friends. A few people call out to Spock (Lieutenant-Commander Uhura insists on giving him an air-kiss in lieu of a hug, to the great amusement of those around them) but eventually he makes his way to the Observation deck upon the advice of a passing pilot.

The deck is almost empty. Given the current exuberance of the crew, Spock suspects this absence is made in deference to the lone figure standing against the deck's windows.

Kirk stands with his face only inches from the transparent-aluminum wall. He stares intently at the small figure of the Earth below them.

Spock steps to his side.

“You know,” Kirk says, not looking at him, “For awhile I was afraid they wouldn't let me come back. They talked about it. Making me an admiral - taking the ship away.”

It would be a logical choice. Kirk is perhaps the most decorated starship captain, despite being, still, one of the youngest. His tactical genius is legendary. He would be of great use to the admiralty.

But Spock is able to say, honestly, “You are of more service to them here.”

Kirk leans against the window. He reaches up with splayed fingers like he could grasp one of the swirling white clouds hovering over the earth below. “It can't last forever.”

“Nothing does, Sir.”

“Five more years,” Kirk murmurs, smiling tightly. The expression doesn't match his tone – wistful, bitter.

“And then we will find a new purpose,” says Spock, impulsively taking Kirk's hand. The captain looks surprised for a moment, but this time, his eyes soften when he smiles.

“Yes,” Kirk agrees. “I think we will.” He leans in closer.

Even if they only _do_ have these five years, Spock thinks – it is better to be here than at Gol.

This moment, alone, would be enough for a lifetime of memories.


End file.
